


Legends of the Astral Hammer

by DaleVonOndine



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22416118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaleVonOndine/pseuds/DaleVonOndine
Summary: No-one said Angus was the only one who could wield the Hammer of Many Names...
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	Legends of the Astral Hammer

It lay on a stone pedestal, in the exact centre of the room. The Hammer of Glory, the Astral Hammer, the Gloryhammer – no one seemed to agree on what to call it. The walls and floor were bare, so that the weapon was the focal point of the room. Currently the afternoon sun was lighting it gently. 

It was not the most refined weapon. Not only was it a hammer, in itself not a delicate object, but the style at the time of its creation tended towards simplicity rather than ornamentation, and it had obviously fought many battles before. Still, it had a presence unlike any other. If a weapon could have charisma, the Hammer had it in spades. It weighed on the mind of the spectators like a great beast sleeping in a corner, relaxed but ready to pounce. 

When he had first held it, Angus had felt the presence of the many heroes who had wielded it before – though some too-rational folks would have blamed exhaustion instead. Now the weapon had found its place in his life, in the castle and in the legend. Hard to believe it had only been his for a year: he felt like he had always known it. He liked the idea of handing it down to his future descendants. The Hammer, weapon and symbol of the McFifes for centuries to come. How he would be proud to show it to children, to let babies put their tiny hands on its handle, watching their reaction as they, too, heard the voices of the heroes of the past.

He made a mental note to wait until the children were older. The heroes of the past were generally as subtle as the Hammer itself, and had the kind of vulgar language that made even him blush. Yes, touching the Hammer for the first time would work better as a symbol of adulthood. Maybe even middle age, just to be on the safe side. 

Angus soon became lost in his thoughts. The alcohol he had imbibed earlier kept the pictures flowing in his head: bouncing babies on his knees, giving a child their first sword, teaching little tykes how to steal food from the kitchen, and horse riding, and snowballs, and so many stories that he could tell! He was grinning to himself, looking like a proper fool, or so the Hootsman thought. 

The Hootsman had drunk too, of course, and way more than Angus. As this was his pastime since early childhood (Unst wasn’t rich in distractions), he wasn’t actually more drunk than the prince. In fact, many people would have been hard pressed to see any difference from his usual self. But while Angus was a happy, rather benevolent drunk, alcohol made the Hootsman even more confident and cocky than he normally was. So while his comrade stood rooted in place, sometimes chuckling to himself, he swaggered around the room. Behind him, Ser Proletius, Grandmaster of the Knights of Crail, kept his eyes locked on the barbarian. He liked to drink, too, but he also liked to believe alcohol didn’t affect him at all, and he had had to break way too many drunken fights to be fully relaxed in the company of two intoxicated warriors. Especially when they were in the same room as an extremely powerful weapon.

Truth be told, alcohol, of course, did affect Ser Proletius, and his mind wandered as well. Oh, not very far, but just enough that he didn’t see the smile on the Hootsman’s face, the smile of a child looking for his next mischief. 

The Hootsman grabbed the Hammer.

Angus sobered up instantly – at least that’s how it felt to him. The vision of the Hootsman holding the Hammer, his weapon – HIS! – shattered all his visions of ponies and shared apple pies. Meanwhile the barbarian had lifted the Hammer effortlessly and was now striking ridiculous poses in the sun.

“Look! Look, I’m Angus McFife!”, he roared, a huge grin on his face. “I’m the Prince of Dundee! Get me my dragon, I must go on a mighty quest!”

Proletius stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. Angus was now spluttering, and the knight was afraid he would try and rush his friend, which would obviously be disastrous. The Hootsman was still posing, enjoying the sudden attention. The prince finally managed to get his thoughts and words mostly in order: 

“How… How? You can’t hold it! It’s mine, you can’t...” He turned to Ser Proletius, suddenly looking very young. “Tell him he can’t touch it!” He seemed truly distressed by the sight of someone else wielding the Hammer. Not even angry, not really, but viscerally upset. Like his world had suddenly been shattered.

Even the barbarian seemed to pick up on something, but he chose to double down. “No-one said it was bound to you! It’s a bloody hammer, I can hold it all I want!” He waved it around, causing Angus to yell in frustration. Proletius, who was used to problems he could solve quickly and efficiently, found himself unable to decide on a course of action. Yes, a fight between the Prince of Fife and a heroic, high-ranking member of a suzerain state would have terrible consequences. More concretely, such a fight might damage the Hammer, as well as, of course, both fighters, and maybe Proletius himself. His loyalty went to the Prince, as well as his affection. And yet Angus was acting way beneath his age and his rank. Proletius vaguely considered going out and closing the door behind him. Tempting, but cowardly. So he took a deep breath as the voices around him raised.

“Attention!”

Both the barbarian and the prince stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide in disbelief. He closed his. This might mark the end of his career, maybe the end of his life. He kept going.

“How dare you? This is unworthy of such warriors! Not even the lowliest squire would dare to squabble for such a petty matter!”

Proletius lifted an eyelid. They were still staring. He closed his eye again and thought of bright blue skies and fluffy clouds.

“Now you will put down your weapons and apologize, like the men you are! I expected better of you two!”

Before opening his eyes again, he imagined himself as an eagle. Cold stare, sharp beak, a force of nature. Certainly not a man who was about to be chopped down by a hammer or sentenced to death. When the mental image was solid enough, he dared look at the two men in front of him. To his surprise, they were staring at the ground and shuffling their feet like two very large children. The Hootsman took a few steps and put the Hammer back on its stone pedestal, as delicately as if it had been a baby. His eyes darted up towards Ser Proletius, back to his feet, up at Angus and then back down.

“’m sorry”, he muttered.  
“’m s’rry too”, came the answer from the Prince of Fife. 

Proletius breathed a sigh of relief, that he managed to disguise as one of exasperation. Fatigue came down on him all of a sudden like a cold weight dropped on his shoulders. He looked down at his two companions, then turned around as loftily as he could manage. He needed a nap or two, and maybe a nice long holiday. Possibly in a cave.

As he started down the stairs, he heard the Hootsman’s voice mumble behind him.

“Hammers suck anyway.”


End file.
